My mother’s thigh were my stepping stone to the world beyond when I was born.
Day in. Day out. I sat there listening, never understanding the sounds from her mouth.
I clung to her bosom, it was all that I had.
I remember my first movie, Elizabeth Taylor being swooped off her feet.
Maybe I could be a damsel in distress in a marble courtyard someday, I mused.
It was such a honor to be chosen as a damsel when I was young.
Some night, mom was my enemy, other nights, dad was my enemy.
Both nights I had someone I could confide in, an ally. My brother.
He stood up for me when I was defenceless.
The hero I’ve never known until the day he became mute.
The intimacy I had never appreciated until we became estranged.
Not by time, space, barrier, but by words.
I watched him detach, I watched him change.
Before my eyes I saw him become what I could never describe, what he may never be able to explain.
And that day came when I held his hand, I cried and bursted out in anger
He bowed his head for he didn’t want me to notice the creeping duress that was becoming too real.
His unflexible smirk revealed a cold war unfurling within him, he was no more than ten.
When I was born, I clung to my mother’s bosom, it was all I knew .
I knew my knight in shining armor all too well, until he went missing, hidden inside a conch.
Now, I have even less than I did then, but I have chosen to be a knight to nobody, but him.
He is small and compact but will always be my ally.
Then I met a man and when I told him this, he told me, “youth is wasted on the young”.
As we steadily approach the third decade of life, I have to admit that perhaps he was right.
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Image Courtesy: Silas Onoja on Twitter